Second Chance

by Linda Kepner

  There was plenty of laughter.

  But Louis Dessant slapped his desk and said, “Deal! I will cover.”

  Bishou stared at him. “Mr. Dessant, are you nuts? I’m a literature professor.” She remembered too late that he said he took risks.

  “Do it,” he challenged her.

  Bishou sighed and stood. She walked up to Dr. Hunt, leaned over, and murmured in his ear, “Crap. I’m really sorry about this. I should’ve warned you they’re getting restless and ugly.”

  Hunt sensed a kindred spirit at last, and murmured, “What are you going to do?”

  “Win the bet or die trying,” she murmured in reply, then raised her voice. “All right. Phenotype and genotype. And the World Tobacco Conference donates money to the EVU Scholarship Fund, right?”

  They turned to look at Gray Jackson, standing in an aisle, who grinned and said, “Right.”

  “Okay, here we go. Use your imaginations.” Bishou started shaping things in the air, on an imaginary table. “I’ve got three warming racks here, like you see at banquets. Each one has a heat source underneath, and on top, I’ve got three pans with water in them. Okay so far?”

  Masculine grunts.

  “Okay, this first pan has water in it. Underneath is canned heat, and I’ve got one of those clicker flints to start it. Clack — there’s my clicker — the canned heat lights up. After a while, the burning stuff heats up the water. There’s my hot water. You don’t need to know what went into the doings in order to appreciate the hot water at the end. Are you still with me?”

  Grunts and yesses.

  “The hot water, though, is the phenotype — the result you see — and that flint was the genotype, the mechanism that got everything started.

  “Okay, here’s my second pan. Up top, water, same as the first. Underneath, there’s a tiny dish with just a drop of water in it. I take a lump of magnesium out of the kerosene I usually store it in to keep it from igniting, and pop it into the drop of water for a major chemical reaction.” Dr. Hunt started to smile, too. “So the magnesium acts like a flare, do you see? And it heats up the water in the pan, and the result is — a pan of hot water. You still following me?”

  More grunts.

  “Here’s my third pan of water. Underneath it is a gadget I borrowed from the radiation lab — a mini atomic reactor. I pull the damper rod and let it run, and it heats up. It heats the pan of water — and there’s your phenotype, hot water.”

  Now she could hear talking, and approval, and somebody clapped.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute, we’re not finished. Now I want to show you the points Dr. Hunt was making. The fire we used to heat our three pans of water came from three different sources — mechanical, chemical, and radiation. Now, suppose, instead of combinations of flammable ingredients, we have combinations of those genes he’s been talking about — a physical combination,” she pretended to touch the heat source of her first pan, “where the genes, smaller than a microscope can see, are wrapped around each other in such a way that they produce something different. Not hot water. Flavor. Without bite. The flavor you want in your tobacco.”

  More grunts. Flavor they understood.

  “There’s flavor in that pan up there, not hot water. Flavor is your phenotype, in this case. And the right genotype can come from a genetic combination that occurs in three ways.” Again, she pointed to her three imaginary burners. “Mechanical, chemical, and radiation. Those genes make you, and they can break you. A mechanical combination can be knocked apart, on the genetic level. A chemical combination can be dissolved, maybe by a chemical like DDT, we don’t know, we’re still studying. And we know radiation combinations are always a risk. The A-bomb proved that. Any of those combinations get knocked apart, by natural or unnatural forces, and suddenly, your flavor phenotype isn’t new leaf, it’s old socks.”

  “Thank you for putting it so clearly, Professor,” said Dr. Hunt smoothly, picking up where she left off, and going back to his original lecture. However, from time to time, he referred to Bishou’s examples, and his crowd settled down.

  Just before the break, as Dr. Hunt wound down his lecture, Bishou became aware that someone stood beside her: Vig Hansen. The catcalls and cheers were remarkable as he handed a $10 bill to Louis Dessant. Louis smiled and tucked it in his jacket pocket. His risk had paid off.

  “Thank you,” said Bishou Howard, “and the EVU Scholarship Fund thanks you, too.”

  • • •

  President Lanthier laughed and laughed. Looking at Bishou, seated in the guest chair in his office, he almost choked. “So that’s what it was! Do you know, those tobacco-men have donated almost $10,000 today?”

  Bishou stared. “Holy cow! I thought they were only talking a thousand or so.”

  “From the Conference, yes. Three thousand. The rest comes from individuals. A couple of them told me that Miss Howard did the university proud today, and we should be spending more money on women like her.” He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, and said, “Okay, do you want me to eat any of the words I’ve said to you?”

  “No, sir, you’ve been perfectly right all along, and I’m doing my best to live within the guidelines you set. I just didn’t — well, you know, they’re tobacco men. They take risks.”

  “And Mr. Dessant backed you, because you’ve been so good to him,” said the President. “You know, he gave us a private donation, too. Six hundred and fifty dollars, all the money he collected on the bet.” He was still chuckling. “You were brave enough to take that dare. You didn’t know where it would lead you.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Well, that’s true.” President Lanthier pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Sorry if I scared you, summoning you to my office.”

  “No, sir, I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t know what was going to happen next.”

  Lanthier asked her, “Do you know what the trouble was with Dessant’s visa?”

  “No, sir,” she replied.

  He understood at once. “Is there anything I should know?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Will it affect the conference in any way?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good, I’ll keep my deniability, then. Thank you, Bishou. And thank you for the boost our scholarship fund just got.”

  What a day, Bishou thought, as she stepped outside. The sun was setting. The atmosphere of the place was different — Friday night on campus. People, mainly couples, were walking around. She could hear subdued, relaxed laughter somewhere in the darkness. But it was not dark enough to disguise the man in the cream-colored suit who waited there.

  “What are you doing here?” Bishou asked Louis, walking up to him and looking up into his face.

  “You are not in trouble?” Louis asked. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Madame Norton said you were at the president’s office.”

  “You’ve been over to my rooms? You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “Well, I know the way there, now.” Even in this dim light, she could see his smile. “We are going on another autobus trip tomorrow. Will you go with us?”

  “Sorry, no, I can’t. I’ve got tutoring sessions and a Saturday afternoon class.”

  “Ah, I am sorry. Then I suppose there is nothing for me to do but return to my hotel room, and sleep. Si fatigué.” So tedious.

  “No,” Bishou said impulsively. “There’s a movie playing at the auditorium.” She named a James Bond film, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, that was making its rounds of the college entertainment centers. “Do you want to go?”

  “I would like that,” he replied.

  They walked across campus to the auditorium. The line had already started to move inside. Bishou reached in her purse for her money.

  Louis grabbed her hand, and pushed the purse shut. “What are you doing? Non.”

  “I invited you,” she objected.

  �
��No woman pays my ticket,” he replied testily, reaching in his own pocket.

  “D’accord, d’accord,” she soothed.

  They got popcorn, found seats, and got comfortable. “I wish I’d had time to put on slacks,” Bishou grumbled, hitching her feet against the empty seat ahead of her.

  “You look very nice,” Louis reassured her.

  They watched previews of forthcoming movies, and then the feature started. Bishou would never have told him she had seen it before — but that was all right, there was plenty she didn’t remember. And his reactions were amusing. He jumped when the main character jumped, watched everything carefully, and munched popcorn happily.

  They stood outside the auditorium after the movie. “I liked that,” he said. “I have always liked action cinema. I am surprised that you do, though. I thought that was a man’s weakness. Perhaps it’s all those brothers.”

  “Perhaps so,” Bishou agreed with a smile.

  “The cinema does not interest you the way it interests me,” Louis said. “I suppose I am just a more active nature. I wonder if that is true of most men, that they find joy in these little things?” He tucked her hand around his crooked elbow as they walked. He was comfortable and relaxed in a way he had not been before.

  “Maybe you just needed a break from tobacco,” Bishou suggested.

  “Oui. I suppose that is true. Too much of anything is not good for a man. It was good not to think of anything except how the hero was going to catch the villain. And he was a funny hero, not a tragic one. French heroes all seem to die at the end, except a few who merely go to prison.” Louis placed his hand over hers, on his elbow. “Your grip changed when I said that. Did you believe I meant myself?”

  “No — not really.”

  “Yes, you did. I did not mean that. I only meant the cinema. What one finds in the prison — that is much different.”

  “Where were you?” It was tough to grip his elbow and ask that question.

  “I almost don’t remember. Belleville, after La Santé. The crowding wasn’t as bad — and I was not as numb anymore.”

  “Numb?”

  “Oui. Shoqué,” he affirmed. “It probably — what word? — cushioned me through the worst parts of the experience. And — men are always sympathetic to a man whose downfall was a woman. To be faithful, that means a great deal.”

  “I wasn’t asking about your personal life, Louis, truly I wasn’t,” Bishou protested.

  “No,” he said quietly, “I know you were not. I don’t know why I wanted to tell you. Except — you said, ‘She’s beautiful, Louis.’ You did not say, ‘So that is the evil woman who ruined you, Louis Dessant.’ ”

  “And you are still faithful to her.”

  “She was my wife,” he said simply.

  They walked slowly along the darkened paths, in sync, arm in arm. At last, they reached a terrace. Bishou pulled him over to the stone railing, and pointed toward a metal sculpture on the side of a building. The sculpture was lit by spotlights.

  “Watch the sculpture,” she told him.

  “Hein? Watch it?”

  “Just watch it.”

  Louis watched, uncomprehendingly, for many long minutes. Then he asked in a puzzled voice, “But it is not the same as when I started watching it — is it?” She heard the boyish laughter again. “It has a motor in it, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “How pointless! How many people would notice that?”

  “They would have to take the time,” Bishou replied. “They would need to care enough to look. It is art, beautiful and unexpected. Maybe pointless, too, but I’m not so sure.”

  “A point one does not understand, or perhaps just not yet.”

  “You caught my meaning exactly. I find there are many such things in the world. I can’t give advice on them. I don’t know why they happen, either. But I can like them, and find comfort in them, and befriend them, and maybe some day I will know.”

  Louis leaned his elbows against the wide stone railing. Then he reached out and clasped her hand. “You will make a good teacher.”

  “I hope so,” Bishou replied seriously.

  “And you are strong, mon amie.”

  “I’m not that strong. But if there is only one road to take, well then, I can take that road.”

  “Bien dit. I understand. But sometimes one road is all that is left after making stupid decisions throughout one’s life, hein?” He stroked her hand. She could feel the roughness of his skin.

  “Are you thinking of yourself?” she asked him.

  “A little, I admit.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to give you advice, Louis. I really don’t know. The only man who gives me advice — at least decent advice, that I might accept — is my brother.”

  “And yet he allows you to walk on alone.”

  “If I’m not strong enough, I had better learn. He knows that as well as I do. He’s been a Marine in Southeast Asia. All I’m doing is university. It pales by comparison.”

  “And you are left alone, to make your way in the world.”

  “Oui, c’est vrai.”

  “I hope you are not hurt,” he said.

  “I hope so, too,” Bishou replied.

  Louis smiled, straightened, and tucked her hand around his elbow, just another man taking his lady home from the movies. They strolled across campus, back toward the graduate apartments.

  Walking past a classroom building reminded Bishou of something. “You told Dr. Roth you had met him before, in a lecture hall. When was that?”

  “Tuesday morning. Your class.”

  “You were in the back of my classroom?”

  “Oui. I wanted to see if you really were a teacher.”

  “Well! There are no flies on you, Mr. Dessant.”

  “I did not know enough about universities to know if there were really such people as female college professors,” Louis said, “but that showed me, yes.”

  He had been very matter-of-fact about his interpreter’s credentials, she reflected. Now she knew why. He did not take it on faith. For some reason, that made her feel better. She patted his hand. They walked on.

  Then Louis broke the silence to say, “Both you and your brother love your useless parents, who make your lives burdens. Why?”

  “Why do you love Carola?” she asked.

  He did not reply, but acted like that was the answer he expected.

  A few yards from the front door of the graduate apartments, he stopped. Louis looked as awkward as she felt. He took her hands in his.

  “It has been a long time since I was on … a date.” It took him a long moment to find the right words. “Thank you for suggesting it. It was … nice. If we were not in the middle of a university quad, with students running around us, I might at least kiss your hands.”

  Bishou chuckled. “I know. And we still have a week of friendship, before we head for opposite sides of the globe. You to run your business, me to look for work. In the meantime, I suppose, we just act like normal people.”

  This time, Louis chuckled, too. “I suppose. All right. My bus trip tomorrow, then Sunday is free. You might see me then. I do not know.” He released her hands. “Goodnight, Bishou.”

  Louis turned and walked into the darkness. Bishou took a deep breath, and went into the graduate apartment building.

  Chapter 9

  Saturday absorbed Bishou in work. There were tutoring sessions, student reports to catch up on, and a couple of status reports from teachers who’d given her advisees failing grades. She had back-to-back appointments, with only time out at lunch for a quick sandwich and soda.

  At six that evening she dragged herself back to the graduate apartments. Marie Norton was at her door, bottle-feeding the baby.

  “Well,” Marie greeted her with a grin, “is the weekend starting yet?”

  “Three tutoring sessions, three advisee sessions, and two failing-grades.” Bishou nodded. “A drink for me and bedtime.”

  With
a jerk of her head, Marie invited Bishou inside. “C’mon in and have the drink with me. Joe’s at a night court session, and I haven’t seen a grownup in a day.”

  Bishou really didn’t feel like it, but she sympathized. “Deal.” She carried her stuff inside Marie’s apartment and dropped it on the nearest chair. After a satisfactory burp from the baby, Marie set him down in his crib. Then Bishou and Marie went to the kitchen, poured themselves glasses of wine, and sat at the kitchen table.

  “I keep telling myself, just another year,” Marie sighed, “but sometimes it’s hard.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  “People like Louis make it harder, don’t they?” Marie flashed her a quick glance.

  Bishou sighed, put her elbows on the table wearily, and ran her hands through her hair. “Now, don’t you start, too.”

  “I’m not. I won’t. And I admire your iron will, having some myself,” Marie said wryly. “But he does, doesn’t he?”

  Bishou sipped the wine. “Dr. Roth already told me to watch it. He called Louis ‘sex in a white package.’”

  Marie laughed. “Roth caught that, did he?”

  “Mmm-hmm. And the other tobacco people have been trying to fix us up since they got here.”

  “So forgive me for asking — why isn’t it happening?”

  Bishou took a deep breath. “I keep reminding them I’m on a job here, and I have to stay professional. They’re finally getting used to the fact that Louis Dessant is still carrying the torch for his late wife — which isn’t exactly the whole truth, but it’s all they need to know.”

  Quietly, Marie asked, “Am I telling you something you already know if I tell you he has a criminal record?”

  Her husband was a lawyer. Joe had looked him up.

  Bishou met her gaze. “Yes. Homicide, fugitive from justice, arrested, convicted and found guilty, sentence commuted to seven years at hard labor, released on parole. Now his friends and business have taken him back in, and they’re all pretending it never happened. He’s trying his best to measure up.”

  “My God, you don’t just erase ten years,” said Marie.